


A More Dream-Heavy Hour

by sloppy



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Insecurity, M/M, Pining, Post-season 7, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 07:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloppy/pseuds/sloppy
Summary: One pack of rations per family member every month sounds sensible within Garrison walls, but out in the open it’s stingy, pathetic. Kinkade loads the last boxes into the truck and pulls up the catalog on his holo: 42 boxes. That’s three hundred and thirty-six ration packs for this half of the town to sustain every man, woman, and child all thirty-one agonizingly long days of July.





	A More Dream-Heavy Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [this poem](http://www.poetry-archive.com/y/he_remembers_forgotten_beauty.html). Shoutout to Lily for dealing with me and my mess.

One pack of rations per family member every month sounds sensible within Garrison walls, but out in the open it’s stingy, pathetic. Kinkade loads the last boxes into the truck and pulls up the catalog on his holo: 42 boxes. That’s three hundred and thirty-six ration packs for this half of the town to sustain every man, woman, and child all thirty-one agonizingly long days of July.

He wipes the sweat off his brow against his forearm and tries not to think about the heat that catches him even in his thin wife-beater. He had ditched the uniform a week into the relief effort, useless so far away from HQ and inefficient, at that. Sunshine on St. John is a species of its own, reigning down like layers upon layers of thick gelatin, browning every piece of exposed skin. It makes Kinkade achingly miss Jersey summers, with its rubber-melting concrete and endless green-eternal.

“Heads up!”

Turning to the voice, Kinkade reacts just in time to catch the water flask thrown his way. He nods his thanks before chugging all that’s left. It’s nice and cold. Some of it dribbles down his chin in his enthusiasm.

“Might wanna slow down there, K,” he hears Lance warn, a laugh already queueing. “Wouldn’t want you to drown on me. Then who’d be qualified to drive the transpo?”

“Non-sentient vehicles scare you that much?” he answers evenly, flask emptied.

“More like four-wheelers. I stuck to the skies for a reason.” Lance is wearing a loose grey tank and running shorts. There’s a smear of sunscreen just over his left cheek, and he’s smiling so big it’s like he’s just decided Kinkade is the most hilarious boy on Earth. Kinkade is not the most hilarious boy on Earth. “Now, if you’re done making fun of little ol’ me,” he says, slapping the hood of the transpo, “we’ve got families to feed.”

Kinkade drives the transport vehicle with the top down, same as it’s been for as long as he’s driven it. The wind crackles against their hair, their skin, their clothes. Every route they take is the scenic route. At one point they travel close enough to taste salty ocean air on their tongues. Lance whoops all the way through, waving at the occasional playing children or curious street dogs running fruitlessly after them.

They’ve been on this relief effort for nearly a month and some weeks. The Garrison had sent out barrages of rescue fleets as soon as the main space disaster had been contained, but the second waves of soldiers only dealt with the lingering Galran nationalists rather than the major population displacement and resource depletion that affected masses worldwide. Commander Iverson, with the advisory of Dr. Holt and ex-Instructor-now-Captain Shirogane, ordered the MFEs to split the efforts alongside their ships. Team Voltron unbraided themselves to aid them, their ever heroic quest never-ending.

This is how Kinkade ends up sharing a Virgin Islands hostel room with the infamous Red Paladin for six and a half weeks.

Their start hadn’t been rocky like most of Kinkade’s early partnerships. It helped that they prioritized the mission. Moments in between were filled with shop talk, which was a refreshing change. None of the other MFEs had shared Kinkade’s interest in riflery. Above all, it was Lance. Three days in and Kinkade could openly laugh at every deplorable joke the other boy threw his way over breakfast. Close quarters could do that, sometimes. Most of the time, it was the people themselves.

 

When the Galra had ruled, they were largely focused on country capitals or densely populated areas. Islands were a little harder to manage because they were so spread out. The first couple years before total comm blackout, Kinkade learned about a few successful guerilla stand-offs in seaside villages no one would have batted an eye at pre-invasion. It always made him proud to hear. Humanity could never take its fate lying down, least of all ones who’d been victim of foreign oppressive forces time and time again.

Distribution lasts three hours, which is twice as long as it should be just because Lance tends to be doted on each and every drop. They like Kinkade all right, sure, but it’s Lance who they’ve fallen for. Lance and his golden grins. Lance and his savoir faire.

Their last drop coerces them to stay for dinner. As usual, Kinkade lets Lance do all the talking. The enticing smells from their lovingly made dishes whirl up the rafters and out the windows, and Kinkade knows the family’s used up their precious ingredients to entertain their visitors. He sneaks a couple extra protein packs for them off-record as Lance blankets their goodbyes.

Back in their hostel, the nighttime humidity has them perspiring and miserable. Kinkade’s typing up a restocking request on his holo when Lance fusses off his shirt. He’s on his bed, too, back flat against the wall opposite the other, lounging like he expects Kinkade to notice. And he does notice. It’s very hard not to notice. Lance quirks the ends of his lips, wordless and something-other. Kinkade swallows, looks back at his holo, and rereads the same line over and over again. The heat is unbearable.

 

“Without Vero, I’d never have made it to cadet,” Lance says once during a ride for a clothes haul drop up north. “Flight school kicked my butt. Simulators, whatever. In-class exams? Murdered me good.”

“She vouched for you?” Kinkade guesses, amused.

“I wish! Nope, she tutored me until I could see equations with my eyes closed.” He mimics the motion of his eyelids fluttering shut, then opens them again, sweet summer blues free to the world. “Book smart, I am not.”

Kinkade shrugs. “Neither am I.”

“Liar,” Lance scoffs. “Aren’t the MFEs top of the class?”

“I’m a hell of a shot,” he brags, a little proud, using the same phrasing his instructor had used in his recommendation for the MFEs. “Not too bad sim scores.”

“Huh.”

He could see Lance staring in his peripheral. “What?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing, just burning in jealousy,” comes the reply. When he can’t parse the tone, Kinkade spares a glance at him, but Lance is only smirking, a strange glint in his gaze. “I’m _so_ jealous.”

“Sure,” settles Kinkade.

“No, I am! I wish _I_ was a hell of a shot.” It’s obvious he’s fishing. It almost makes Kinkade roll his eyes. Lance could be like a needy plant some days, reaching for more than just water.

“You’re not only a hell of a shot, Lance,” Kinkade says, mainly to appease him, “you’re the goddamn king of the scope.”

Lance’s surprised laugh bubbles from his diaphragm, hearty and full. He tosses his arms above head, palming the breeze with his free hands, and exclaims for the skies to hear.

“I like you so much, K!” His words throws Kinkade into a shock. “You make me so happy when I’m with you!”

He short-circuits and lets Lance gush alone. It doesn’t seem to bother him.

People think Ryan Kinkade never has anything to say. They credit it to his raging superiority complex, or his shyness, or that he really is just a boy of few words. The truth is worse. It’s that there’s so much pure, unfiltered thought warring through him every single waking hour, he can barely temper his mind in time to deliver appropriate speech. He can think so much in one sitting, nothing to do but let it consume him from the inside-out. No one has ever known about the constant supernova raging in him.

Lance acts like he knows. His forte is mindless talk. Some conversations, Kinkade feels as though he could never stop the brimming flood out of his throat. And he’d see Lance smiling then, not the same common brand he gives away like hard candy, but something rawer. Maybe even genuine. It ages him about a thousand years. Kinkade finds himself thinking about it non-stop, after that first time, but only rarely does it make a reappearance.

 

When it’s required of them, they lend a hand in rebuilding. There are few and far in between in need of infrastructure support, but since neither of them are well-versed in the civil side of engineering, they get stuck with paint duty. Which is just dandy until Lance accuses Kinkade of dripping some over his head on purpose, when in fact he was only reaching for the space above him. It sparks an all out battle. Paint stains Kinkade’s palms blue the next day.

Other days, it’s crisis control. The local officials don’t have the manpower to split for basic domestic disputes or petty crime, so for as long as they’re there, Kinkade and Lance play vigilante. In comparison to thundering killer aliens, talking down a man and woman in a loud public lovers’ quarrel takes more or less gumption. Not to say they never tire of it.

 

The thing about relief efforts is that they don’t allot for busy work every day, besides the weekly resource drops around the island or the rebuilding or emergency aid. It ends up with them finding ways to kill time on an island with a thousand and one things to do. This particular afternoon, they choose to go to the local swimming hole to stave off the exhaustive weather.

Amidst the comforting white noise of kids and splashing, Lance floats in place. “Whew, missed this. There was nothing but dust and goo up there.”

Lance never speaks about life in space, and Kinkade never asks. But occasionally, he lets some things slip, as vague as one would speak about a childhood memory.

Kinkade is easing into the cool water. “Goo?”

“Both edible and not,” he confirms. His butterfly strokes are immaculate, despite years of disuse. “The Castle had a pool, but it was wack, so I never used it. The room was upside-down.”

“Like Alice in Wonderland,” Kinkade muses, thinking of his mother and the bedtime stories she’d read him. “Upside-down everything.”

“That mean I’m Alice?” Lance dips into the water then bobs back out, droplets sticking to his cheeks. He flicks his fringe out of his eyes. “Down, down, the rabbit hole,” he sings.

They swim until their fingers raisin, weathering through the rain that eventually falls like cats and dogs. People come and go, shrieking with glee. Kinkade wades out further to catch up with Lance in the center of the hole. They play-wrestle and they splash and they let the outpour bear down on them as if it’s nothing at all; no care in the world, like boys who’ve never seen war.

 

The incoming line beeps at 0400 hours, waking Kinkade from his restful slumber. He switches on the comm and tries not to sound as groggy as he feels.

“Kinkade,” he presents, sitting up with sad effort. The sun won’t rise for another two hours, so the room is pitch black until his vision corrects to it. He can see Lance shift in his bed at his shuffling.

“Mornin’, flyboy,” greets Veronica, and Lance is up, scrambling over Kinkade, tangling his sheets around their legs.

“Vero!” he all but gripes into the receiver. Kinkade can’t hide a grin at his excitement. “How are you? Why haven’t you been returning my calls?”

Veronica’s only a small image on the holoscreen’s 4x6, but her presence is still monumental, even a continent away. “We told you to from the start to keep private calls to a minimum, Lance,” she says, sounding exasperated but looking fond. “They’re still repairing satellite chunks, so work-only lines for now.”

“What’re you calling for, then?” asks Lance.

Veronica huffs, and Kinkade imagines a hand on her hip, though the screen only showcases from the neck up. “I was getting there. First off, how’s everything on your end? We’ve been getting the progress reports but it’s better to just hear it outright.”

“Reconstruction’s at fifty-five percentile,” Kinkade recites from memory. “Resources are just over the average after ration packs drops.”

She whistles. “Sounds better than most. God knows everyone’s itching to pull you guys out just for petty envy alone. You heard about Griffin and the Black Paladin in Antarctica? Poor suckers. Anyway, the stats seem stable enough to survive on without you two.” Lance looks at Kinkade with furrowed brows, but Kinkade’s just as clueless. “We found a hideout. Heat signatures indicate hundreds of them. It has to be the last. We haven’t come across any for weeks.”

They both get steely and Lance doesn’t say anything, so Kinkade asks, “When do you need us?”

“Two days,” replies Veronica. “That should be enough time to disengage the Voltron paladins and all active Garrison soldiers from their stations back to base. Your ships still intact?”

Kinkade nods. Both the Red Lion and MFE fighter are bare in a strip of beach on the outskirts of the islands, having done nothing but sun-bathe and rest for all of the two months they were here.

“Good.” Veronica throws up a mock salute. “See you soon. Love you, lil’ bro. Kinkade, keep my brother in check.”

Lance mirrors her, tittering. “Love you, big sis.”

She logs off and they watch the darkened screen for a while, unable to move. The clock only reads 0403. Lance doesn’t crawl back into his bed, but into Kinkade’s, stealing his blankets and burrowing deep.

“Lance?”

“You heard her,” he explains blearily, already halfway back to dreamland. “We’ve got two days.” He patted the small space beside him. “C’mon, K, keep me in check. Mmm, your bed’s softer than mine.”

Kinkade flops on his back, aware of the weight just a breadth apart from him on the other side. His heart beats like firefly wings. He tames his breathing to a rhythm. Eventually, he drifts off to sleep, tire overtaking, and when he wakes up again the sunlight has managed to break through the open windows, swift breezes along with it. And he is alone in his bed.

 

There’s one intact pub this side of the island, just next door to their hostel. Kinkade doesn’t drink, Lance never has, but they’re three thousand miles from home and nothing can stop them here. The bartender doubles as their landlord, a sturdy old woman who slams two ice cold drinks on the table as soon as they walk in.

It’s hard liquor, the real thing, and Lance makes a face after one shot. Then he mainlines another, and another, and another, until he doesn’t make the face anymore. Kinkade orders ginger ale after the first shot because he’d never subject _two_ drunk Garrison kids onto the populace. Lance isn’t loud when he drinks, just simmers down to a boil on his own. Only now does Kinkade notice the dark rings under his eyes, the sap of his energy.

After a pitiful hour of this, Kinkade tugs Lance away from the counter and thanks their host on the way out. They walk past the door to their hostel, and Lance doesn’t realize it until Kinkade’s hopped in the transpo, leaning over to unlock the passenger seat.

“What’re we doing?” the other boy asks, rubbing his jaw.

Kinkade answers him easily. “Going for a ride. Get in.”

Lance gets in. They drive without a real destination, away from the town and towards the roads by the sea where the far ocean waves rear onto shore as muffled roars. Tonight is their last night in St. John. Kinkade didn’t think the place would latch onto him, more than just a mission. He’d only just gotten used to the sticky nights, the mouth-watering food, the razor-sharp locals.

Lance is in and out, basking in reticence like Kinkade isn’t anywhere near. Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How were you, when you were a kid?”

“How do you mean?”

“I bet you were a little thing, K,” Lance slurs, just above a murmur, “little till you shot up all big and… strong.”

Shaking his head, Lance forfeits the line of conversation and slinks into the seat. The moon is out and tints his face a lunar mask in the shallow night, the silhouette of a fairytale, surreal like he could dissipate as soon as the lights come on.

“I don’t like when you call me K,” Kinkade confesses, spurned by the moon, wrist limp over the wheel. “You always sound like you want me to be someone else.”

“Do I?”

“You do,” he insists, agitated by the other boy’s waffling.

Lance doesn’t answer immediately. “It’s good that you’re you,” he says low, a secret willed to the surface. “I couldn’t do this if you were anyone else.”

Kinkade’s mouth went dry. _What do you mean by_ this _?_ _And what’s so good about me?_ His own cowardice is astounding at the forefront, mouth sewn shut with strings of silence.

Lance continues from where he left off, examining a hand outstretched in front of him. “When I was little, I felt like… the happiest boy alive. My family was the best. Every day was so fun. It’s like I was in this bubble.” He meanders, a dry laugh that means nothing. “I didn’t know I wasn’t good enough until I got to the Garrison.”

“Lance—”

“Blue,” he interrupts, like a plead rather than a name, “Blue made me happy. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t good enough for her. She still loved me. But not even that lasted. And Red… well, everyone knows who Red loves more.”

Kinkade pulls the transpo off to the shoulder of the road. They’re all there is on the streets, alone together under the glittering constellations.

“You’re wrong,” Kinkade says. “Whatever you’re thinking, it isn’t true.”

“Oh, I’m wrong?” Lance’s voice starts to raise. “You gonna tell me I’m worth it? That I’m not as stupid as people say? Tell me that if you’re told something so much over and over again you’re bound to start believing in it, even if it’s not the truth? Well, guess what, _Kinkade_ , I know more than people think. I know the Princess never loved me. I know Hunk and Pidge haven’t spared me a thought since we got back to Earth. I know my family’s better off without deadweight.

“And don’t think I don’t know how you look at me. Like—like you think you could be in _love_ with me. Let me tell you something: you’re not. None of this is real. You’ll realize that as soon once we get back to reality. I’m just the guy you got stuck with.”

Kinkade levels his breathing as though Lance is a cornered animal. In many ways, he is, heaving hard after that spiel, full of anger as well as grief. Kinkade wants to shoot something. He can’t stop his hands from shaking, something it’s never done in all its time behind the trigger.

“Ryan,” Kinkade says firmly.

Lance’s face flushes in confusion, bottom lip wobbling. “What?”

“Ryan is the name of the boy who’s in love with you.” He braves a look at him. He balls his hands into fists. “Not buddy, not pal. Not K. This has always been reality to me. You don’t have the right to tell me it’s not.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do, though,” he says. “You don’t have to take responsibility for the way that I feel for you, or even feel what I feel for you, but I never got to say… that day, when you told me I made you happy, was that a lie?”

Stricken, Lance could only shake his head, frightened into candor. Kinkade barrels on, “Alright. Listen, I said you were wrong because a person’s worth isn’t based on being enough or not enough. They just are what they are. And to me, you’re… You make me happy, Lance. You make me confused and frustrated and unhinged and… alive. I think that’s what really makes a person: the way they make you feel.”

For a time, Lance can only blink forcefully at the windshield. Kinkade wonders if he’s stepped to far, and then Lance covers his face, frantic and shivering. “I’m… I’m sorry it has to be me.”

“I’m not.” Kinkade ushers Lance’s hands away, wanting to recapture the blue of his eyes, even irritated-red and watery as it is now. The touch is scalding. “I’m not sorry. So please don’t be.”

There are crickets in the grass. They sing in-between the lulls of their conversation. The bushes whisper, curious critters vying for food and only finding two boys in a government transport vehicle. Nocturnal birds chirp in faraway trees. Kinkade was wrong; it’s not a lonely night because they are far from alone.

“Never drinking ever again,” Lance mutters wryly, wringing his fingers in his lap. Kinkade grunts in agreement. He keys ignition and they drive back home for the very last time.

 

“Virgin Islands, huh?” Griffin asks, clasping Kinkade’s hand in boyish welcome, jokingly bitter. They meet Griffin and Veronica in the hanger. “You smell beachy. I hate you so much.”

“Sleep well in that igloo?” Kinkade bites back, cheeky. His friend replies with a groan, a little exaggerated, but mostly not.

Lance has been hugging Veronica this whole exchange, muttering something beneath his breath. Veronica nods, then releases him, somewhat reluctantly. She looks over at Kinkade, yet addresses them both, “You were the last to arrive.”

“We miss anything?” Lance asks her.

“Just a minor debrief. We’ll fill you in on the rest with the others. They should be waiting in the conference room.” She puts a gentle touch on Lance’s shoulder. “Good to have you back, boys.”

As they trek further into the compound, Kinkade watches Lance fall into step with his sister, hungrily listening as she regales him with the story of how their niece lost her first tooth while he was away.

 _Deadweight_ , Lance had called himself, but Veronica zeroed in on the Red Lion a hundred meters in the air, dashing outside perimeter against protocall just to watch as they leveled to the ground. Lance can’t seem to tell even when it’s right under his nose.

“Earth to Kinkade,” he hears Griffin call. They’ve been lagging behind the siblings. When he looks over, Griffin’s giving him a smile too smarmy to be one of friendly wholesomeness. “You’re not paying attention to anything I’m saying, are you?”

“Penguins,” Kinkade guesses.

“Hardy-har, keep rubbing it in, why don’t you?” He motions his head unsubtly to the front. “I guess two months with something that pretty can get to anyone, huh? Shame, though, if that’s all he’s got going for him.”

For all his cool exterior, Kinkade nearly missteps. A match strikes in his chest. He urges his mouth to say something, anything he can wring out in defense. _You make me happy_. But he’s a second too slow and Griffin takes his hesitance as agreement, nudging his shoulder against Kinkade’s.

“Don’t worry, I still think you’re the prettiest in all the land,” he says, chuckling to himself, unbeknownst to the black hole spawning beside him through Kinkade. Before Kinkade can even breathe again, he switches off to another subject entirely. “Did Rizavi tell you what happened to her last week? To begin with, you’d think of all places Canada would be the _fun_ one…”

Griffin doesn’t give him a break. Kinkade dimly registers that this has always been their dynamic, that it was only years’ worth of Griffin working off of Kinkade’s selective silence. The only difference now is that Kinkade knows what it’s like to be given time to collect his thoughts in time for an answer. He knows what it’s like to be listened to with such intensity, as though every syllable out of his lips are budding seeds in a dying wasteland.

Somehow, upon realizing this, the short feet of distance between him and Lance feels staggeringly far.

 

Every person on the entire premises is present in the conference room today. The MFEs, he spots almost automatically, mingled in with the rest. Lance’s team aren’t suited up, and for Kinkade that makes them almost impossible to recognize. The uppers are seated talking amongst themselves, and surrounding them are aliens and allies from Voltron’s Coalition. Kinkade can’t name 70% of the room. He’d screwed off to the relief effort as soon as the biggest threats had been neutralized, so he missed out on the particular alien-human bonding everybody seemed to be in on at the Garrison.

As they trail in behind Veronica, Kinkade leans down to Lance’s ear. “Welcome back to Wonderland.”

The following guffaw is unabashed, and it doesn’t take a second before someone notices the newcomers.

“Lance, my boy!”

“Coran!”

A ginger alien Kinkade has seen flitting around before enters his view to greet Lance. He talks in a whirlwind but Lance seems to pick it up alright. Meanwhile Kinkade hangs back, admiring the relief on Lance’s face as Coran goes on and on.

“This is Kinkade, by the way.” He snaps to attention as soon as Lance says his name. “He’s one of the MFEs.”

One of the MFEs? Not the most ideal way to be introduced by the person you like, though he supposes there really is no other way to describe their relation. He suddenly wants to make a good impression, especially for a man that so obviously cares for Lance.

Kinkade gathers himself and puts out a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe at your service, but Coran to friends. A pleasure!” he exclaims. But he only stares curiously at Kinkade’s outstretched hand.

Lance fakes a cough. “Shake it.”

Coran shakes his hand very literally, swishing sideways. Kinkade doesn’t falter, playing along with Lance’s nonverbal cues. It’s a little funny, so he cracks a grin.

“How curious!” says Coran. Kinkade raises an eyebrow at Lance, who shrugs in response. Coran is a hard man to flap. He gossips about officers neither Kinkade nor Lance seem to know and cracks off-kilter jokes before zooming back into the crowd of people, a hurricane having completed its job. Knowingly or not, he’d successfully broken the ice.

“I think I’m gonna go say hi to Hunk and the others. Haven’t seen them in a while.” Lance is telling Kinkade this with some hesitance, as though asking for permission. Kinkade doesn’t know why he would need to do that.

His eyes snag on Griffin mingling with the other MFEs. “I see my team,” Kinkade says. When Lance’s face falls inexplicably, Kinkade tries to amend it by saying, “We can meet up after. Firing range?”

“After the brief?” Lance perks up. “Yeah, definitely. Jeez, talk about separation anxiety. See you later.”

Kinkade tries not to let that phrase twist in his head in ways it’s not supposed to as he heads off towards the corner of the room where the MFEs have claimed territory. Rizavi and Griffin are the poster children of solidarity as they trade relief effort horror stories. Leifsdottir is on her holo with her back against the wall, reading most words aloud. There’s a space free beside her where Kinkade beelines for. He’d never tell anyone this, but Leifsdottir may be his favorite for company alone.

Rizavi eggs for a fist bump and he humors her. She has her hair down today, no glasses either, and Kinkade realizes that Griffin’s wearing slides. He double-takes the smock dress Leifsdottir has on. Everyone is fresh from someplace else, now they’re back in the Garrison as if they had never left. The base had been their home for so long during the worldwide occupation, not out of choice but of necessity. Kinkade thinks it’s natural to want to cling to the last remnants of the outside world before donning the uniform that once held the chaining weight of an old dread.

Dr. Holt and Captain Shirogane take lead on the debrief once the room settles. At around 0130 hours MST two days prior, Garrison field testing rovers patrolling the Grand Canyon detected a sudden appearance of raised mass the width of a football field; the last Galran stronghold. Holt posits their invisibility field had fried without proper maintenance materials, and now found themselves at the disadvantage. Scanners estimated around three-hundred heat signatures, enough bodies to justify rounding up the whole circus.

Much of the meeting is logistics and planning. There isn’t any doubt whether or not they’d make the first move. Eliminate them before they eliminate us, is the common consensus, and the correct one.

Kinkade is seated in the middle between Rizavi and Griffin, adjacent Veronica. Alongside them sit the other Garrison officials. On the opposite end are the aliens and the Voltron Paladins, regal and attentive. The Paladins shoot off question more than the others, since the MFEs were never one for questioning orders and the aliens seem placated at the core, but it’s mostly dialogue on specifics or suggestions. Nothing brazen, like Kinkade expects.

Then the teams are decided. Holt signals Veronica, and she projects the aerial view of the surrounding area, which is really nothing but rocks and more rocks. The base, if you could call it that, is built on the outskirts of the canyon, not quite strategically placed, but difficult to surround in times of need.

“The Atlas will be in the air as an open comm command center. The Green and Yellow Paladin will join Cadet Leifsdottir for tactical support on the ground, acting as first responders for backup.” Veronica recites this stiffly, more so than usual. Her glasses reflect the low light of the screen. “Engagement consists of the Black Paladin, the Blue Paladin, Cadets Griffin, Rizavi, and Kinkade. Friendly fire on your call.”

She’s left out Lance. On his side, Lance schools his face into something solemn, awaiting his assignment.

“We’ll need to place a sniper closest to enemy range as possible for recon. We have a certain outcropping in mind. It’s important to get the first shots in, and we can’t go through with the op without an eye out front,” Veronica finally says, fixated on the clipboard in her hand. Kinkade is close enough to see her fingers clenched to white. “Lance.”

Her brother nods, but the room goes up in smoke. The Green Paladin, who Kinkade sort of knows as Dr. Holt’s daughter, practically jolts. “Wait! By himself?” she asks.

Princess Allura puts a protective arm around the back of Lance’s chair. Next to them, the Yellow Paladin is shaking his head. “I don’t like it.”

Even Keith, the dropout-turned-hero Kinkade remembers from classes, adds, “I’m going with him.”

“Paladins, please.” Dr. Holt tries to appease the frey. “We have no other option. The more people on recon, the lesser there are on engagement and tactical. The Atlas is for strictly air combatant purposes. After the last battle, the ship’s artillery has yet to fully recharge. We can only spare so much. Lance is the right man for the job.”

A man? But Lance is just a boy. A boy who has too much in him, so much he thinks he has nothing instead. Kinkade sees that Lance has dropped his stony gaze to the surface of the table. Inexplicably, what comes to mind is Lance, head raised to the clouds in the passenger seat of a top-down transport vehicle, eyelids closed, blissful. The contrast is so striking that it physically stings, harsh as spikes.

“Let me do it,” Kinkade says loudly. His mouth moves on its own accord. “You only need a sniper.”

He can feel Rizavi and Griffin rubbernecking. Never has Kinkade spoken out of turn once in all these years, now suddenly everyone is eyeballing him, and he’s hot under his collar.

“No!” cries Lance, and it’s the first thing he’s said the entire meeting. “I can do it. I’m doing it.”

Veronica is frowning, either because of Kinkade or her brother’s sudden enthusiasm. Maybe the combination of both. “Kinkade, Lance’s Bayard has fast access to melee fighting. You’re only specialized in long distance.”

“So I’ll bring a knife.” It seems like an easy fix.

“Kinkade,” Rizavi hisses at him, but everything outside of his own voice feels muffled, a little unreal.

“Drop it,” demands Lance. Lance is looking the way he does when he gets unreasonably stubborn. “Your PR’s twenty-four hundred meters. Mine is thirty-one. We don’t know what we’re up against, or if anyone can even get that close. I’d be the better shot.”

In the pause of his passion, Kinkade feels a pleasant drop of surprise at the thought of Lance having remembered his personal record. The protective flare comes back soon enough, though, and Kinkade finds himself saying, “Stop trying to want this.”

As soon as it comes out, he regrets it somewhat. He’s basically implying that Lance would willingly throw away his life for self-pity alone. Only last night did Kinkade get a glimpse of how wide the yawning gap has really been. With a could-be-suicide mission in arm’s reach, Kinkade couldn’t dismiss the idea of Lance thinking of it as an out. The notion itself is terrifying. Now, Kinkade can’t discern exactly what Lance is thinking, especially when he meets those glassy blue eyes and sees nothing reflected back.

Quick as a whip, Lance stands up, slamming his hands on the table. Princess Allura lets out a startled gasp, dainty fingers flying over her mouth. His chair rolls backward and one of the Coalition folks halts it with a two-fingered hand.

“This has _never_ been about want! That’s not what this is about. How could you even—” Lance freezes, pressing pause on the remote.

As though in a fugue state, his gaze sweeps the room, absorbing each level of disturbance, and then, like a record, rewinds. The chair is collected and sat in, as if ordered. He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck, seemingly sheepish. No movement is erratic.

“Sorry,” he says, slapping a shy smile on, the image of apologetic. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Must’ve left me grumpy.”

Of all people, it’s the current Black Paladin who fills in the dead hush. “Lance, what—”

“Cadet Kinkade.” Lance completely dismisses him and addresses Kinkade with a title Lance has never used in his life. “Thanks for volunteering, but you can trust me on this. I may not be the most reliable guy in here, but… well, not to brag, but I’ve been told once that I’m something like a king when it comes to what I do.” His smile bleeds ice. “A king of the scope.”

Kinkade’s first reel of thought: _Thank God_. His second: _What of the what? I said something as embarrassing as that?_ Third: _How do I apologize after this?_ Fourth: _Why should I even apologize?_ Fifth: _Because look at that smile._

“I understand,” Kinkade says, carefully blank. “I shouldn’t have insisted.”

“It’s fine,” Lance replies ever so airily. “You were only trying to help.”

There’s an Altean girl, blonde, at the far end of the table. Kinkade hears her ask, “Are all human conversations this incomprehensible?”

There isn’t an audible answer. Captain Shirogane redirects the conversation to the game plan, glossing over the uncomfortability with expertise. Almost thankfully, everyone leaps on it without further opposition. Throughout the rest of the brief, Kinkade ignores the itchy looks Griffin and Rizavi exchange over his head and pays attention to the details of the mission. If Lance is so insistent on doing his part, Kinkade will not fail to execute his own under any circumstances. It’s only fair.

His last thought on the matter: _Since when was love this irritating?_

 

He pockets his keycard after entering the firing range. Predictably, he’s the only one there. Classes are on an indefinite hiatus, to most cadets’ relief. He checks all the equipment by hand, taking his time with each button and groove he’d familiarized himself since his range safety officer days. He aligns his breathing with the hum of the machines and feels his heart rate slow.

Kinkade doesn’t expect Lance to show up after a spectacle like that. He puts on a muffler and goggles with unrestrained aggression. As much as he hates to admit, Kinkade may be the only one at fault. Lance had accepted his duty like any soldier would, and second guessing the intention behind would be insulting to anyone. No one outside of their little battle seemed to recognize the root of the conversation, except for maybe Veronica, who caught Kinkade storming off right after dismissal and reprimanded him with a simple but effective squeeze on the arm.

He picks a practice handgun from the rack. A target sheet lowers on automatic. Is it unnatural to worry? he wonders as he adjusts his gun’s baffles. After a drunken spiel like the one he’d been witness to the night prior, anyone would’ve come to the same conclusion. _I’m sorry it has to be me_. Ticked off, he pulls the trigger and thinks of nothing but his aim for the next twenty minutes.

As fate would have it, he was a fool to think otherwise. The entrance slides open just as he empties his last shell. Kinkade hears Lance before he sees him, accounts each dragging footfall and swipe of his Bayard against his pant leg. Wordlessly, Lance sets up behind the berm to his right, his profile a muddled blur due to the embankment.

“Protective gear,” Kinkade can’t help but remind.

Lance scoffs, getting in position. “Gonna report me, officer?”

“I might.”

The target in his lane is blasted to smithereens, the Bayard’s laser too strong for a flimsy sheet to withstand. Another one comes flying in, and its fate is the same as the one that came before. Kinkade doesn’t move. It’s always mesmerizing to watch Lance shoot. Until Lance, he’d never known perfection could be effortless.

Lance halts after the seventh renewed sheet. He transforms his gun back to its original form and tosses it on the ground. Then he sits down on the floor mat with his back against the foot of the berm, heaving audibly. With nothing else to do, Kinkade follows suit so that they’re back-to-back, the thin divider the only barrier between them.

“Sorry,” Kinkade says to him, breaking the ice, “about earlier.”

“I know you are.”

“I got worried.”

“Everyone’s worried. I’d be flattered if it wasn’t so annoying. D’you know Keith cornered me after the debrief to make me promise I wouldn’t mess up the mission? It’s his roundabout jerk way of telling me good luck.” His intonation flattens. “Do you really think I’m that far gone?”

Kinkade closes his eyes. “No. I think you’re… conflicted.”

“Not about that, though,” Lance says, just above a whisper. “Not about dying. I don’t want to die right now. I don’t plan on it anytime soon.”

“Good,” Kinkade croaks out. “Then who’d keep me company when I drive the transpo?”

He doesn’t see, but Lance’s laugh rings clear. It somehow resonates through the one room in the facility without acoustics, lingering a little longer than an echo.

“Ryan Kinkade, you are the easiest person in the world to fall in love with,” Lance says, melancholy in his voice. “You can see it’s been a very rough two months for me.”

Heart beating in his throat, Kinkade gathers his courage, his battle-worn bravery. “Is it still rough now?”

“Nope,” Lance replies blithely, after a beat. “I figured it was time. I can’t tell you how simple it was, once I let go. I just don’t know what comes next.”

“I can guess,” says Kinkade.

A Garrison instructor visited his school when he was young. She had brought a training sim for the aptitude test, and at the time it was the most alien-like piece of technology Kinkade had ever seen. He’d failed the initial test. After some badgering, his parents got a hold of a second chance. His family said they’d only insisted because it was the first time in his life that Kinkade had ever expressed wanting anything for himself.

They should regret it. They’ve enabled him too much. Now look at him, getting up from the floor and walking around the divider without so much of a thought. Look as he kneels before Lance, cupping the base of his head with a heated palm. Look at the way he kisses him, like breathing has only ever been a luxury, the history of want at his fingertips.

“You make me happy, Lance,” Ryan murmurs against his lips. “Do I make you happy, too?”

Look how selfish he’s become.

**Author's Note:**

> OK! Purged it out of my system. No more V*ltron for me. Donate leftover complaints via [my writing blog](http://malrie.tumblr.com/) if you’d like. xx


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